


Empty Spaces

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son, Post-Episode: s13e03 Patience, Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-21 11:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12457260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: Four stand-alone ficlets focusing on Dean’s headspace after the events ofAll Along the Watchtower. Spoilers up toThe Rising Son.Gen (chapters 1 & 2), Destiel (chapter 3), Dean/Crowley and Dean/OMCs (chapter 4).





	1. Witch

There are things that Dean can't do, no matter how much he wants to.  
  
Wrap Mom in his arms and hold her tight and keep her there, safe and sound, and never let her go.  
  
Smack Cas upside the head for having such dumb ideas, then hug him and tell him never to do it again.  
  
Punch Crowley for lying again, yell at him for being so stupidly careless with his life, tell him to get his act together.  
  
Dean can't do any of those things. And the list goes on.  
  
He can't get Sam to quit bringing up theories about how Mom survived and there must be a way to get her back.  
  
He can't stop feeling like shit for wanting Sam to give up hope before he does something crazy like re-opening the rift and wreaking havoc on Earth.  
  
He can't find a way to off the Devil's kid, so now he has to watch Jack mope around the bunker, looking confused and vaguely guilty.  
  
He can't just fold and say, "Okay, Sammy, if you say he's good, I trust you." Not when the memory of what happened the last time he had a bad feeling about something is still fresh on his mind, when he knows so many things might've been different if he'd just stood his ground about the Brits instead of capitulating to Sam's pressure.  
  
He can't stop agonizing over whether this attitude is going to save the world or damn it.  
  
He can't help but wonder if the world is even worth saving, if it's worth the sacrifices made to keep it turning.  
  
He can't stop asking himself how much more is he going to have to give before they fight is finally over, or before he stops caring at all. Whichever comes first.  
  
The one thing he can do is snatch Sam's cell phone and track the number Lucifer called them from to a hotel in Williamsburg, Oklahoma. He can contact the hotel reception, ask if a tiny Scottish redhead checked in recently. He can call the local coroner's office, introduce himself as FBI Agent Young, and tell him to leave the body alone.  
  
He can get into the Impala and head out east.  
  
He can wrap Rowena's charred remains in white cloth, lay them on the Impala's backseat and drive until he finds a good resting place for Crowley's mother, for the lying, deceiving witch who always fought tooth and nail and never gave up, for the woman who died alone.  
  
"Goodbye, Rowena," he says, staring into the flames.  
  
It's early morning by the time the fire dies down. In the rays of the rising sun, the Impala doesn't gleam, covered in dust and dirt.  
  
She needs a thorough clean-up.  
  
That is something Dean can do.

 

 

 


	2. Mother

The drive to Illinois takes Dean a little under eight hours. He spends that time in silence, nothing but the rumble of the Impala’s engine and the whoosh of warm night air to keep him company.  
  
It’s morning by the time he gets there, and the sunrise is blindingly bright and beautiful and his mother is dead.  
  
“Hey, mom,” he says, kneeling on the grass to put his hand on the granite headstone. “I just wanted to…” He has to take a minute before he’s able to speak. “I’m sorry you came back and hated it. I’m sorry you felt like you needed to prove something to us. I’m sorry you got pulled into that place.”  
  
He pauses again, the memory of Lucifer grabbing her and dragging her through the rift with him still too painful to process.  
  
“I know we didn’t see you die,” he says eventually, because he’s here alone and no one can hear. “I know there’s a chance you might still be alive. Sam thinks we might use Jack to get you back, you know.” He takes a breath. “The thing is, I can’t let him do that.”  
  
It sounds awful. It _is_ awful. “If the rift opens again, there’s no telling if we’ll be able to close it again, or how many things will slip through before we do. So it just can’t happen.”  
  
The knees of his jeans are damp, soaked with the morning dew collecting on the grass. The headstone is starting to warm up under his hand. His fingers trace the name engraved there, big letters that say his mother is gone.  
  
“I know I said I understand, that I’ve made deals to save my loved ones too. But mom, I can’t keep on doing that anymore. There’s too much at stake here. I’m sorry.”  
  
He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, surprised to find it dry. The tears will come later, he guesses, when the enormity of what he’s doing finally fully registers.  
  
He stands up, pats the headstone one more time. “I’m sorry. Goodbye, mom.”

 

 

 


	3. Angel

It has to be done at some point, Dean knows this. Either he does it or Sam will, and that just doesn’t seem right. It should be Dean.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he turns the doorknob, walks in and switches the light on, closing the door behind him.  
  
The room is almost empty, as if nobody ever lived there. Cas never spent too much time in the bunker, always running off to do something important somewhere else, on his own. Never asking for help, and refusing it when it was offered freely.  
  
Except that one time when Dean had to kick Cas, confused and freshly human, out. Just one of the many things Dean will never get to make up for to Cas.  
  
Shaking his head to get rid of the thought, Dean looks around Castiel’s bedroom. It occurs to him that the last time Cas was here, he must have been plotting the theft of the Colt. Just one of the many things Cas will never get to make up for to Dean. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Dean berates himself out loud, and finally starts to do what he came here for. He goes through the drawers of the dresser by the wall, finding several pairs of spare underwear, some old sweats and a few tees Cas borrowed from Dean a while back, and the stupid uniform Cas used to wear when he worked at the Gas-N-Sip.  
  
Dean asked him about it one night, standing in the doorway, beer in hand, watching Cas unpack his meager belongings. “I want to keep it,” Cas said then, as if that explained anything, “in case I ever start to forget.”  
  
He puts the stuff in a cardboard box. On top of the clothes, he puts the fuzzy slippers he gave Cas for Christmas last year, and the dog-eared copy of _A Game of Thrones_ that Sam lent Cas that time Cas was healing from the after-effects of Rowena’s spell.  
  
At the sink, there’s a barely used toothbrush and an almost full tube of toothpaste. The chapstick Dean tried to get Cas to use is there too. Cas kept forgetting about the thing, and his stupid, always-chapped lips used to drive Dean crazy.  
  
Dean puts the stuff in the box too.  
  
He looks around once more, checking drawers and the nightstand and looking under the bed, but finds nothing else. The box isn’t even half full.  
  
He sits at the bed, the old Men of Letters mattress creaking under him. He thinks it sounded different when it creaked and moaned under the combined weight of him and Cas together, those rare nights they dared to give free rein to whatever it was between them, whatever they allowed it to be.  
  
“This can’t mean anything,” is what Dean said to Cas after one of those times, hastily getting dressed before Sam came back from his morning run. “Things end badly when I get too attached.”  
  
He hates that he was right.

 

 

 

 


	4. Demon

Through the hallway, the hushed yet intense tones of Sam and Jack’s voices are carried to the kitchen where Dean sits and drinks his second beer and tries not to listen, and fails.

Sam sounds so honest and concerned, and it raises Dean’s hackles that Sam is showing more emotion over Jack’s existential crisis than he’s shown at Cas’s funeral pyre. But hey, maybe that makes sense, because Cas is dead, but Jack is still alive for Sam to worry about. Everyone’s got their way of avoiding having to deal with shit, and for years now, Sam’s go-to strategy has been to focus on other people’s feelings instead of his own.

But Dean is not Sam. He doesn’t want to think about how Jack feels, he doesn’t want to think about how Sam feels, he sure as hell doesn’t want to think about how  _he_ feels. Especially since everyone he’s spoken to—basically Sam and Jody, but whatever—was all _Dean, I get it_ and _Mom this_ and _Cas that_ , but the kicker is that it’s mostly _Crowley_ in Dean’s head.

Ain't that a nice new addition to the ever-growing list of _Reasons Dean Is Fucked Up_.

Dragging his hand down his face, Dean groans. He just wants this to stop. To forget, even if for a little while.

The irony is that this is the point where he’d normally sneak off somewhere out of Sam’s earshot and call Crowley, exchange a few insults as pleasantries, then settle on a place to meet. Crowley was good at helping Dean forget, just like Dean was good at helping Crowley remember.

And now Crowley’s gone.

Dean tips the beer bottle back, but all that’s left is a few drops. The fridge is empty, as is the bottle of JD on the counter and the entire secret stash of booze in Dean’s room. Times have been tough for a while.

It’s all empty, and Dean can’t be here right now.

He gets up, grabs his jacket and his keys, hollers at Sam through the door that he’s going out.

He gets in the Impala and drives where the car takes him, ending up in one of the dozens of small towns in the middle of wheat fields, a bright red _BAR_ sign beckoning him to pull over.

It’s a dive, crowded space and stale air and sticky tabletops. Dean elbows his way through the patrons until he finds a free spot at the bar. He orders whiskey, straight, knocking it back and asking for another right away. The bartender, a short-haired woman in her mid-forties, is too busy or tired for the ‘what's troubling you, honey?’ routine, so she just pours him another shot and moves on to the next customer.

When he’s working on his third drink, he starts wishing he hadn’t drowned his sorrows in the bottle so often; now the alcohol barely takes the edge off. It’s not nearly enough to make his mind shut up.

Every time someone steps too close, or brushes against him as the Friday night crowd gets bigger, there’s a moment when Dean thinks it’s Crowley, because he’s feeling miserable and Crowley somehow always knows and always shows up, offering quips mixed with innuendo and surprisingly insightful commentary.

But Crowley’s gone.

Dean scowls at his empty glass.

“How much?”

Turning to his right, Dean finds a man standing next to him, tall and wiry, with a big moustache that’s more white than brown.

“How much?” The guy repeats, a leer on his face, thumbs hooked in his belt, drawing attention the bulge in his jeans. “For a blowjob?”

Dean blinks slowly, confused. “I’m not–“ he starts, but when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the bar, he can’t really blame the guy for his mistake. He looks like shit: bruise under his eye, split lip, pale skin, dirty jacket because in his haste to escape the bunker, he grabbed the same one he wore for the past two days. It’s not just that, though. He’s got that desperate look of someone who just… well, he’s got that look.

“How much,” the guy says again, slowly, like he’s talking to someone simple-minded.

And Dean thinks, why the hell not, and says a number. It’s too low, judging by the surprise on the guy’s face, but Dean really has no idea what the rates are these days, it’s been over a decade since he last had to do this.

The guy apparently decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Alright then,” he says and grabs Dean by the front of his jacket and starts leading him outside. Something inside Dean bristles at the way he’s just expected to follow, but he pushes that part down, lets the guy lead him into the poorly lit back alley outside, lets himself be made into a thing to be taken and used.

It starts out hopeful, with the guy pushing Dean to his knees and telling him to get to work, but he’s barely average in size, and his hands are tentative in Dean’s hair and he’s mostly silent and lets Dean set his own pace. It’s all wrong, and instead of getting lost in the task, Dean finds himself thinking about Crowley again—those extra inches he sold his soul for, the steady flow of filthy words delivered in that strong, deep voice, the certainty of his hands taking things Dean didn’t think he could give, and giving things Dean didn’t think he could have. Things he'll never have again.

Because Crowley's gone.

The guy comes with a grunt, then pays up and leaves, apparently satisfied.

Dean is not.

He stays on his knees, the cold from the ground seeping into his bones through his pants, and he looks at his hands, bruised knuckles and crumpled dollar bills. He thinks about maybe picking up another man, someone with dark hunger in his eyes, someone who’d make Dean forget, take the pain Dean feels inside and match it from outside too.

It sounds tempting, but the people who walk him by all give him a wide berth as they go. Nobody tries to make a pass at him again, though he notices a few women looking at him like they want to take him home, wrap him in a blanket and mother him into health, which just— No.

He pushes to his feet, getting ready to leave, when somebody steps right in his way.

Dean has to look up a little to see the man’s face, the guy is a giant, muscle-bound and heavyset, definitely younger than Dean, expensive clothes and a fashionable haircut and just the right kind of hungry look in his eyes.

“Christo, you scared me,” Dean mutters just to be sure, noting the lack of a reaction to the word.

“Sorry,” the man says. He doesn’t look sorry.

“Right.” Dean licks his lips slowly, and he doesn’t miss guy’s sharp intake of breath when his tongue runs over where his lower lip is split. “So, what’ll it be?”

“How much for roughing you up a bit?” The man certainly doesn’t beat around the bush.

 _Yes,_ Dean thinks and makes a show of thinking it over before he says a number again. He knows this time that it’s ridiculously high, but the guy just nods and says they’re taking this someplace else, heading out in the direction of the main street. He doesn’t even turn back to see if Dean follows.

The clerk at the motel they end up in gives Dean a hateful glare as he hands American Psycho, who is paying for the room, the keys. “Number seventeen,” he says, and they go.

Psycho holds the door open for Dean, then closes it and locks them inside, pocketing the key. “Strip,” he says in a tone that bears no argument, no other option but to obey.

Dean sighs with relief—the guy is going to be good—and does as he’s told.

Several hours later, Psycho throws an extra handful of bills at the soiled, rumpled sheets. “You were good,” he says, and leaves.

Dean counts the money out of force of habit, doing a quick calculation of how many days it will give him and Sam before he remembers that’s not what this is about. Remembers what he for several blissful hours forgot.

He sits there on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, bruised knuckles and now also rope burns on his wrists.

“You’re pathetic,” a voice comes from the door, and Dean looks up to see the clerk standing there. His eyes are black. “Pathetic.”

Dean doesn’t have to energy to argue.

The demon comes closer, scrunching up his nose in repulsion as his eyes travel over Dean’s naked body. “Disgusting. Filthy and puny and weak.  _Human_ ,” he spits the word like venom. His hands are clenched into fists of rage until he wraps them around Dean’s throat. He picks Dean up and throws him across the room. “I don’t know what he saw in you.”

“Who?” Dean asks in hope that an evil monologue might buy him enough time to get to the angel blade hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Crowley,” the demon says, advancing on Dean again. “So many companions to choose from, so many willing and eager to stand by his side and to share his bed. And still he always chose you. Why did he keep choosing  _you_?!”

The angel blade pierces the demon’s heart. The body falls on the floor next to Dean.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “I don’t know why.” His voice is shaking and his hands are shaking and his legs are shaking when he tries to stand up.

He sits back down.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he says. "It wasn't supposed to be him."

Because the thing is—the horrible, cold, heartless thing that is eating him up—is that deep down, Dean knew trapping Lucifer would come with one hell of a cost, because victory never comes free.

It just never even occurred to him that the price might include Crowley, too.

Crowley was supposed to be  _safe_  for Dean, immune to the _people Dean Winchester cares about die_ curse. He was supposed to be the one Dean could count on to always put himself first, to watch out for himself, to keep himself alive.

"What the hell were you thinking, you stupid son of a bitch?" Dean asks, and gets no answer in return.

Crowley’s gone.

Dean’s still here.

 

 

 


End file.
